The Secret Lives of Married Women Read Free

Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Stas called the water department and got a recorded message. I called Rae and got her voicemail. Walking down our new driveway to the U-Haul, I thought about three days with no working sinks, showers, or toilets.
    “Hey, what’s the trouble?”
    I looked up to see Jack grinning at me from the next yard.
    “You look like someone pissed in your cornflakes,” he said.
    I told him about the water. He stepped away from his pail of plaster and wiped his hands on his pants. “Maybe I can give you a hand. Let me take a look.”
    He followed me back to the house, where I introduced him to everyone else. Then he disappeared into the basement. When he resurfaced a few minutes later, the water was back on.
    We all exclaimed with relief. My unease of the day before was replaced by gratitude. How lucky that I’d met Jack! We invited him to grab a bagel and cream cheese from the breakfast spread on the kitchen island. He dug in without hesitation. He seemed to be in no hurry to leave.
    Eventually Stas and I turned to the task of hauling boxes into different rooms while Jack lingered over his third cup of coffee, talking to Darren.
    “You see, Stas,” I said, as we unpacked linen and quilts and clothing in our new bedroom. “It’s a good thing I met Jack after all. Otherwise we’d have no water till Tuesday.”
    “He really knows this house,” Stas conceded.
    * * *
    “Listen,” said Lillian when we were alone later, drinking green tea at the kitchen table. “I know you’re mostly a stay-at-home mom right now, but if you’re interested in a one-time paying job that you can do at your convenience, a client of mine just told me about a project that might intrigue you. It won’t pay much, of course.”
    “What is it?”
    “Well, he’s blind and affiliated with all kinds of advocacy groups. Apparently one of them received an endowment for the purpose of creating an audio library of poetry.”
    She drew a slender hardcover from her purse. The title was Different Hours; the poet’s name was Stephen Dunn.
    “Whether or not you’d like to record for them, I think you would love this,” she said. “It won a Pulitzer. Anyway, have a look at it and let me know whether you’d like to be a reader. You’d be recording all the poems for around seventy-five dollars.”
    I took the book without opening it. “It was nice of you to think of me, Lily.”
    “Do you ever think of trying out for any local theater?”
    “Yeah, there are a million parts for pregnant women.”
    Right away, I regretted saying this. Lillian held her teacup with both hands and stared into the pale green liquid without answering.
    “I’m sorry, Lil,” I said after a moment. “It’s just—acting is not a part of my life anymore, and I’m okay with that.”
    “All right.”
    I felt my throat tighten.
    “What’s that sound?” my sister asked suddenly.
    “What sound?”
    “Listen,” she said, and then I heard it: something like a trickle of rain, but coming from inside the house. As we rose to investigate, Stas and Darren wandered up from the basement where they’d been flattening empty boxes; they had heard it too. The guest room ceiling was leaking. A steady stream of water splashed from the rafters and pooled on the floor. As I ran to get a mop and bucket, it came to me for the first time that there was no landlord to handle this, no building manager to call.
    “I can’t believe it. On our very first night!” I said to Stas. “How much did we pay for that inspection? No one said anything about a leak!”
    “Welcome to home ownership,” my brother-in-law said.
    * * *
    But lying in bed a little later, I was bone-tired and deeply pleased. I loved the house. The yard had space enough for a swing set and sandbox. There was a lovely wooden side porch between the house and the garage. And come winter, a fire would blaze inside the stone hearth.

3
    “How’s about you haul boxes around today, and I’ll spend